Sanctimonia
by December Tarot
Summary: Dean Winchester is the heir to the company, desperate to follow in his father's footsteps. Sam Winchester hides a secret life hunting monsters. Castiel is trying to get used to life with his adopted brothers, and recover his lost past. But when Crowley and his company come to town, things could get dangerous for this quirky family...(1842 AU, no slash)
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Hi there! This is a collaboration project between two people. We've written the first chapter together, and the story is an AU set in Massachusetts, 1800s. Hope you enjoy! ~December Tarot  
**

Nighttime had fallen. Sam Winchester had grown used to the night. There was something different about hunting in the dusty twilight hours, something haunting. But nothing would ever compare to dealing with his brother.

"Why are you even _here_!?" Dean's voice carried past the thick oak door. "It's not like you're really our brother!"

Yes, the night was truly magical. One hour back from the longest hunt of his life, and he was already killing a beast of a different nature.

Sam stepped back from the door anxiously and sighed a heavy sigh. _Cas is probably on the verge of tears about now_, he thought dejectedly. _I should probably step in_.

Without waiting any further, Sam reached out towards the doorknob, and swung the door open uneasily. It slapped the wall of the adjacent room with a weak bang, and the inhabitants didn't even notice.

The room was situated at the back of the old brick house: the only entrance Sam would use. He liked to come in quietly, in these hours, to avoid any unwanted attention from the servants or his family. But now, he had to face them, whether he wanted to or not.

Dean was inching closer and closer to Castiel with every shout, his eyes dark. Cas was clutching onto the nearest wall, his vacant expression affixed to Dean's face. It was hard to pick out emotion on him, but Sam could nearly smell the fear and anger.

"Why don't you ever say anything? You freak me out sometimes!" Dean Winchester waved his arms. He had no lack of emotion, of course.

At the mention of the word freak, a flash of sudden anger crashed over Cas' face. His blue eyes darkened, and he frowned bitterly. Sam cleared his throat loudly, momentarily freezing the two in argument. Both Dean and Cas turned their heads to stare at him, the air thick with dust.

"Dean, don't be ridiculous. He'll always be my brother."

Cas beamed. Dean, frowning, forced his arms into a knot across his chest.

"Sammy. Welcome back." He sounded strained as he walked forward to embrace his brother.

Over the shoulder of Dean, Sam pointed a meaningful look at Cas, still frozen against the wall. Somewhat awkwardly, Cas started forward to join them. Dean pulled away, still frowning.

Sam gave Cas a light hug, and ruffled his hair with a small grin. He had always been the tall one–Dean was about the same height as Cas, but for some reason, he seemed bigger. Maybe it was his mouth. Sam smirked.

"I'm home, Cas. Miss me?"

Dean scoffed, and leaned heavily against the doorframe. Sam raised an eyebrow, frowning ("Family is thy virtue, Sammy. Family is thy virtue.") He turned back towards Cas.

"Well, don't get too excited," he said, rolling his eyes. "I'm going to go wash up, I'll meet you two in the dining room for dinner, okay?"

Cas pushed past Dean, giving Sam a quick glance before disappearing up the staircase and out of view.

Dean grunted. He glared at Sam, an accusatory look on his face.

"Why do you even care about him, Sammy? He's not really our brother, you know."

Sam just sighed, and shrugged. He shot an equally annoyed look at Dean, and patted his shoulder once, awkwardly, as he started up the stairs after Cas.

Uncle Bobby was waiting for them upstairs. He sat at the head of the battered wooden table, his arms crossed.

"Well, look who the cat dragged in." He said, sarcastically. "Never thought you'd come back, boy."

Sam plopped down in the chair beside him, letting out a long breath. He could smell dinner, and he let it wash over him like a warm rain.

"How was the hunt?" Bobby leaned forward to whisper behind his hand. Sam chuckled, smirking.

"Taken care of," he smiled again. "Vamps never had a chance."

Bobby gave a grunt of approval.

He jerked his thumb over his shoulder at Dean and Cas.

"And those idjits?" He asked. "I heard them shouting all afternoon."

"I think you only heard one of them shouting," Sam replied, leaning back in his chair.

Bobby held back a dry laugh.

"Well, they shut up pretty darn fast after you came," he said, with a swig of his drink. "Must've said somethin' right."

"You don't need to be too eloquent to shut Dean's pie hole."

Dean jerked up, looking suddenly excited.

"Did someone say pie?" He shouted, waving his arms.

Bobby sighed, looking tired.

"No, seriously. Where's the pie?"

"There was never any…" Cas began, in a monotone. "…pie." He stared at his plate blankly. He looked confused.

"I wasn't asking you," Dean pouted.

"Sit down, you idjit." Bobby barked. "There's no damn pie!"

Dean looked as if his uncle had just shot his favorite horse (a black-coated thing that their father had given him on his nineteenth birthday).

"No pie?"

Sam stood abruptly, with a nervous laugh.

"You know what, Dean? We can go out and get some pie tomorrow, okay? I heard the Harvelle's can cook up something good."

Dean nodded fiercely, still pouting.

"Damn straight." He said. "Damn straight."

…...

_Diary Entry #1,_

_I am starting to think Dean does not like me. Sam always says Dean is just something called an "asshole", but when l called him that, all I got was a sarcastic laugh and a warning about "language" from one of the maids. Sometimes Sam makes no sense. _

_It has been ten years since I came to live with the Winchesters and Bobby Singer. My last name, or my real one, is as lost as my past. John Winchester told me I was his illegitimate son, whatever that means. Sam says it's a miracle that they found me, but I don't remember anything at all. I have always been here, in this house. John died a year ago, and Mary before I came, but Bobby is a good man, and I like it here. I do not understand why Dean dislikes me–he tends to talk loudly when I'm around, call me things–but Sam is more than a brother. He's a friend. Sam calls this "best friends" but I am not entirely sure that's what it is. All I know is without Sam, I wouldn't be here at all._

_Castiel. Friday, May Fourth, 1842._


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Hello! Welcome to chapter two. From now on, we'll be switching off writing chapters. 'Cause we're Batman. Enjoy! ~MT**

Crowley was late. He hated being late. It was up there with righteous people, Americans, and children. And pie. He absolutely hated pie.

"Can you tell me," he said, barely keeping a hold on the brim of his hat as he spoke, trembling with anger. "Why the BLOODY HELL we are fifteen minutes late to our own damn dinner party?"

His assistant, a scowly, round-faced young woman named Meg, raised an eyebrow. She tapped the end of her pen against the carriage window lightly.

"No, sir, but I can tell you that it's not my fault."

Crowley took a deep breath. He loosened his grip on the bowler's brim, and curled his lip into a taut smile.

"Oh yes, darling, do tell. I'm so pleased with your unending honor and nobility."

Meg shrugged, complacently apathetic.

The carriage bumped to a stop.

Outside, the thin black building seemed to shiver in the heat. It was too hot here. Crowley disliked America. He didn't like the people, the weather, the cities, the inventions. He didn't even like the guns. That was why he'd started this company in the first place. "This uncivilized stinkhole needs some class," he'd told Meg the other day. "Those goddamn Winchester guns are so…how do you say it? _Anachronistic_?"

Horrible, more like it.

But today was supposed to be a good day. He was opening the factory doors, and was throwing a little fete to keep the locals in good feelings. With a sweep of his hat, Crowley exited the carriage and sauntered lazily up to the wide-open doors of his mansion, already filled with guests.

He'd even invited those _anachronistically horrible_ Winchesters along for the ride.

…...

Dean liked parties. He liked the drinks, like the girls. The music was stuffy, but that couldn't really be helped with the local scene. Mostly, Dean liked to get out of the house, and away from the miserable grumblings of Uncle Bobby.

But why they had to go to this particular party? He was miffed.

"Sammy, why the hell is our rival inviting us to a friggin' banquet?"

He tightened his bowtie, frowning. He wasn't about to show his discomfort. Was Crowley trying something? An assassination? He was the heir after all, the eldest of two. Well, three technically, but Dean didn't like to think of that.

"He's just being hospitable, Dean." Sam was already changed. He looked young and nervous in his suit and tall boots. His hair, long and unkempt, was pulled back, and Dean noted with some pride that he wasn't quite as tall as he looked. It was embarrassing to be shorter than a seventeen-year-old. "I'm sure it's nothing malicious."

"Yes. Just a little dinner before he slits my throat," Dean mumbled under his breath. Sam didn't hear (or chose not to), and frowned at the door.

"Castiel's taking an awful long time, isn't he?" He checked his pocket watch. The scratched gold was stained with something dark, and Dean squinted to tell what it was before Sam swung it away on it's chain.

Just then, the door opened. Bobby came in, looking disheveled, but cleaner than usual. He wore a dark top hat, and looked quite uncomfortable beneath it, like it might reach out and bite his nose.

"You two princesses done preppin'?" He said, folding his arms across his chest. "'Cause that British bastard ain't gonna wait all night for us to show."

Dean smirked.

"Once Cas gets his ass down here, we'll be all ready to go."

Sam frowned, but Dean ignored him. Bobby just sighed.

Ten minutes later, they were all arranged by the front door. Dean stood first, tall and proud. He was the eldest, the heir, the Man Of The House, he told himself. Dad wouldn't want him in the shadows.

Sam and Cas stood on either side of him. Cas' hair was finally neat (it seemed Ellen Harvelle had caught him going into town), and he wore a dark blue vest over a white shirt. Sam's brown suit jacket was smudged slightly, but he looked proud in it. Like Dean.

"Ready, soldiers?" Bobby asked, somewhat sarcastically. "This ain't the apocalypse, remember. Just a dinner party. Mingle, no talking about the factory. Don't answer questions about John or Mary, got it?" He looked pointedly at Dean.

"Yeah, you old worrywart," Dean smirked again. "Don't worry. We'll be fine."

They left before midnight.

…...

Crowley watched his guests with a mixture of amusement and disdain. They were all professionals, men with companies, generals, and the like. But give them a little wine, and Crowley could see the stupidity in them, the flaws. He smirked.

"Meg, darling, tell me when John Winchester shows up, will you?" He swirled his own drink slowly in its glass. The red of it was dark, ruby-colored.

"He's dead, sir. Remember? Terrible accident." Meg was perched lazily in the chair besides him, her eyes following a tray full of food. "Only the kids and his business partner left."

"Ah." Crowley raised an eyebrow. He should have done better research. But no harm. It would be easier to buy out the company without the infamous John Winchester to screw things up.

He remembered reading the news story about the Winchester guns. In the days when America was fresh, and England was still red from losing the fight against it. John was a veteran of said war, hard to break, steadfast. He had a wife famous for being just as stern as him (if not a little more friendly), and a partner with a knack for offhand knowledge. Soon enough, the company was up and running, and Winchester specialized weaponry was littering the new country.

And then he had children.

Two, to be exact. John and Mary Winchester went from giants in the manufacturing trade to mother and father.

And now they were dead.

Crowley sighed, placing his wine glass on the table with barely a sip. He'd feel bad for them, he really would, if only they weren't insufferable little brats getting in on his business oppurtunities.

"Meg," he said. "When they arrive, show them up here."

Meg yawned.

"Yes, Mr. Crowley," she intoned, standing up with a show of boredom. "Of course."

…...

The house of Crowley wasn't as grand as Sam had imagined it. It was plain burnt brick, only slightly larger than the Winchester mansion, and a line of slender trees that Sam couldn't identify lined the cobbled walk.

"Does it smell funny to you?" Dean crumpled his nose, sniffing. "I mean, strange, or something?"

Bobby looked slightly nervous. He leaned in close to Sam, whispering.

"Sulfur?"

Sam shook his head.

"Can't be. We swept this area for demon activity last week, remember?"

Cas and Dean were already almost at the door, arguing about something in loud voices.

"Well I'll be darned," Bobby said, snorting. "They're at it again. Go get them to shut up before we embarrass ourselves. Or start a new revolution."

Sam, sighing, forged ahead, thoughts of demons left behind the warm night air.

…...

Dean stopped in the doorway. His heart sped up, his eyes widened; the room seemed to tip in excitement. With a shaking finger, he pointed towards the long, slender table towards the back of the ballroom.

"Cas," he said, tearing up a little. "They have pie."

Cas' expression didn't change. On the contrary, he was staring at the ceiling with a look of complete obliviousness.

"They have pie, Cas," Dean repeated. He took a few steps towards the table, pushing around a man with a large mustache and a huge hat. But just as he reached the mountain of pastries, his way was blocked.

In front of him stood a young woman. She was short, kind of stocky, but nonetheless attractive, her dark brown hair pulled back into a braid. Her dress was poufy and expensive looking, the bodice laced with what looked like gold thread.

Dean blinked.

"Mr. Winchester?" the girl asked. She spoke in a horrible monotone, her eyes sarcastic under half-closed lids. "Mr. Crowley would like to speak to you and your brother."

"Whoa, whoa. Crowley?" Dean scoffed. "Why does he want to speak with us?"

The girl fidgeted, looking slightly frustrated, opening her mouth to speak. Just then, Sam came up next to Dean. Castiel and Bobby were second behind.

The girl smiled tightly.

"Oh, wonderful," she said. "You can all speak with Mr. Crowley then."

And she started away, slouching in her expensive skirts.

Dean went to move after her, but Sam grabbed his arm, his brow furrowed in anxiety.

"Hey! Be careful. This Crowley isn't easy to get around, so don't do anything stupid." He hissed. Dean smirked, and shoved off his brother's hand.

"Don't worry, _little_ brother," he said, with a grin. "I won't."

They followed their guide through the thicket of guests.

…...

Crowley wasn't sure what he was expecting. A snot-nosed kid, a fully-grown soldier of a man. Dean Winchester was a complete mystery.

But when Meg came back with a look that said "good luck, sucker", he started to get nervous. What if he was some sort of genius? Like that fellow Benjamin Franklin. Was he planning something clever? Crowley itched to know.

But no. Dean Winchester was not a grizzled fighter, nor a scientific genius. He was a kind of short, twenty-ish young man with close-cropped brown hair, green eyes, and the relaxed sort of good looks that seemed to come with money and an easy upbringing.

His brother, on the other hand, looked dangerous. Tall and quiet, he had eyes that knew war. Crowley wondered momentarily what war they could have seen–he was only seventeen, and the revolution had come and gone. Surely, he wasn't a hunter? But Crowley had no time for that.

There was a third one too. Another boy, standing next to the old Singer man. Crowley hadn't expected this. Was he a servant? A cousin? There was something off about him, something strange. The boy's blue eyes were focused directly on Crowley, but he felt as though they were gazing straight through him, and not looking at him at all. Their color was nearly unnatural. It unnerved him.

He cleared his throat.

"Welcome to my humble home," He swept his arms out with a grin, standing slowly. "I trust you're enjoying yourself, Mr. Winchester?"

Dean smiled back, looking devious. Crowley decided he disliked him.

"Your assistant said you wanted a word?" The younger Winchester interrupted. "We're here, then."

Hell, Crowley didn't like either of them.

"I'd like to discuss the prospect of…_joining_ the two companies–" He began, plastering his smile back onto his face.

"You're lying." Someone said quietly.

Crowley blinked. Dean and Sam looked confused for a moment, and Bobby Singer just looked exasperated.

"I'm sorry. What?"

The boy with the blue eyes tilted his head. The expression on his face was blank, uninterested. But Crowley could see a darkness there. He frowned.

"Oh, really? And you are…?"

Sam was glaring purposefully at the boy. He shook his head.

"My name is Castiel." The boy replied. "And I know you're lying, Crowley. You don't want to buy our company. You want to destroy it."

* * *

_Diary Entry #2,_

_I sometimes feel strange. Like maybe I can do things other people can't. Is this normal? Dean says I am imagining things, and Sam just looks sad. I asked Uncle Bobby once, but he ignored me completely. If John or Mary was alive, they'd probably tell me.  
_

_And this Crowley. He isn't right at all. Who is he? I get the oddest feeling of all when he's around.  
_

_Castiel. Sunday, May Sixth. 1842  
_


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Hello there! We're back again, nice to see you. (I.M.) Just so y'all know, we dressed up as Meg and Cas this Halloween...and it was great. (M.T)**

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**This chapter is written by IM. Enjoy!  
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"I'm not lying. Whatever do you mean." Crowley was staring at the young man. "Why would I want to destroy _your_ company?"

Cas eyed the older man in front of him; he was getting nervous, it was plain to see. Cas quickly walked over to Sam and looked up at his tall brother.

"Why is he lying?" Cas was very confused.

Sam looked down at Cas. He was a little weirded out. "Cas what do you mean Mr. Crowley is lying?" Sam suspected that he was, in fact, bending the truth, but he was curious about Castiel's knowledge of his deceit.

"It's just obvious. He just has a peculiar feeling..." Cas spoke slowly, his eyes drifting towards the wall behind Sam.

"I am not lying you creepy little pest! I just want to help Mr. Winchester, no hidden motives." Crowley was getting increasingly angry. This brat was too perceptive.

Dean was also glaring at Cas–he wasn't allowed to act like that.

"Cas, shut up! I don't know what you're doing, but it's not okay." Dean spat out the words like they were poisoned.

Sam quickly stepped in front of Cas, "Calm down Dean. You too, Mr. Crowley. I will not have you insulting my brother for being a little paranoid." Sam glanced at the both of them, shooting a _if you keep messing with him I'll slit both of your throats myself_ glare. Sam glanced to his younger brother and kneeled next to him.

"Cas, I believe you're right about him. But I need you to calm down, or we won't get out of this one." He said, little louder then a whisper. He gave a weary smile, to show he wasn't angry.

Cas looked back up at Sam.

"Okay..." He didn't understand why everyone was being so secretive, but he probably should keep quiet now and Sam would explain it to him later. Sam always made sure he wasn't too confused.

"Now, Mr. Crowley," Sam said, standing up, "You may continue."

Dean was still glaring at Cas, making him feel uncomfortable. Sam noticed quickly, and shot Dean the previous look. He backed off, glaring at the floor. Looking at Bobby, he sighed.

"Why don't you take Dean and Cas to get some pie. We'll discuss later what Mr. Crowley reveals about the companies." Bobby nodded, taking Dean and Cas's arms.

"Don't do anything ya'll regret idjit." They disappeared into a thicket of guests, Dean's hard stare already tattooed into Sam's mind. There wasn't any time to feel guilty, however. Crowley was waiting, an eyebrow raised in disapproval.

"I thought you were the youngest, Sam Winchester," He leaned forward in his chair, tapping a finger on his knee. "Or was I mistaken?"

Sam frowned. Beside him, the young woman named Meg yawned.

"Middle child, Mr. Crowley," He replied gruffly, pushing hair from his face. "Now what were you saying about the companies?"

"Ah. Yes." Crowley smiled his sharp-toothed smile. "I believe it's in our _best interests_ to...merge, so to speak. Friendly, like. Eliminate the competition, see?"

Sam crossed his arms.

"There will be no elimination while I'm around." Sam simply growled the words out.

"But you're not the one to make the decisions, am I right?" Crowley hissed back, "Sammy Winchester. The boy that wants to escape the family business. When your daddy was alive you always fought about that, right? Now that he's dead, you want this life?" He paused for a minute, evaluating his opponents glare, "Or is it that you think your brother can't succeed in this life. That you'll do it better?" He chuckled, noticing Sam's expression turn grave, "Oh! The latter is right...You think you're better than him-"

Sam quickly cut Crowley off, "Now listen here! I believe my brother is the best in his line of work. A thousand times better than you at least. I know he's better than me, and I'm doing this to protect my family. And guess what? A filthy demon isn't going to steal our business!" Sam spat out the words, and Crowley flinched. "Yeah, you heard me right, you monster! I know what you are! Hell spawn! And there's no goddamn way my family's gonna agree with you! No deal! This discussion is over."

Sam left the stunned business-demon and his assistant to stare, shocked, at the space he had just occupied. They had a pissed hunter on their trail now, and it wouldn't be long before he wanted clarification on a few things...

_Winchester Company Log #1_

_Sam W.  
_

_Crowley is a demon. I should have known the instant I smelled sulfur. This isn't right, none of it. He wants the company, and he's not past getting Dean to sell. But that's not important.  
_

_What's important is the demon. Oh God, I can't get it out of my head. How do I even kill a demon? Crowley seems powerful, more powerful than anything me or Bobby or Dad ever took down. I'll have to do some research, that's for sure.  
_

_And Castiel. He can't know. He can never know. Who he is. Where he came from.  
_

_If that happened, all hell would break loose.  
_

_I can't ever let that happen._

_Massachusetts. 1842  
_


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Thanks for the support, faithful readers! Special thanks to woodelvesrock42, SPNAngelGirl, The Slightly Demented, and Soulless666. You guys are great! (M.T.) Also, I got some serious nerd creds today; I wore my Team Castiel pride to school, and on the way back from Algebra with I.M., an upperclassman fangirl said "I like your shirt". *insert fistbump*. #Desperate (but who cares!) :D. Enjoy!  
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**This chapter is written by M.T.  
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Dean chewed on his slice of cinnamon pie with the force of a small hurricane.**  
**

"Shit," He mumbled into the flaky crust.

Cas frowned, and gave him his best exasperated stare.

"Sam said that was a crude and unintelligent word," he said, his voice a monotone.

"Yes, well, Samantha doesn't know what she's talking about," Dean glanced around the party–he hadn't realized it, be he didn't recognize a single person. In their little part of Massachusetts, everyone knew everybody else (and all their secrets too). How was it possible that not a single local was in Crowley's mansion?

"I don't know any Samantha–"

"He's makin' a joke, Castiel." Bobby replied gruffly. He looked on edge. His hat was gripped in his fists, and he kept glancing about nervously. Around them, classical music was a dull throb, the violin dipping and surging like dark waves on shore.

Dean didn't like it.

"I don't like Sammy being with that douchebag alone," he crossed his arms. "It's not right. I'm the heir, I should be the one to decide these sort of things, right? I mean–"

"I agree with Dean," Cas cut him off awkwardly. His eyes were narrowed in what looked like concentration. "This man...Crowley...he is not to be trusted. He is not like us."

Bobby snorted.

"Yeah, yeah, keep preachin' to the choir, kid." He muttered. But he still didn't relax.

Sam came up behind them a moment later, his brow furrowed. A look of frustration was played out over his face, the grey-green of his eyes suddenly dark.

Dean chuckled, and a bit of pie fell from his mouth.

"You look like Hell," he said.

Sam went pale.

"Bite me, Dean." He turned to Bobby. "Look, we should go. I don't think Mr. Crowley likes me very much."

"What the hell, Sammy?" Dean hissed. "You told him no, didn't you? For Heaven's sake! You aren't the heir, okay? YOU don't decide anything!"

Bobby cleared his throat, shuffling angrily on his feet, but nobody paid him mind.

"Dean." Sam made a face that said _I'm trying so hard to be reasonable, but I'd really like to stab you_. "This isn't just about the company. Dad didn't want us to sell, and Crowley–"

"EVERYBODY BE QUIET."

There was a pause. Bobby stared in stunned silence to his left; Sam and Dean's mouths were gaping open, eyes wide.

Cas looked bored. He cleared his throat.

"Everybody be quiet," he repeated. "I don't like loud noises."

Dean's palm went straight to his forehead.

...

Ruby the demon played her game easy. She liked to win, sure, but there was a certain joy in being on the edge. Being almost caught, being the cat disguised as the mouse for a moment.

It was her sin and her secret, and she loved it.

If only Crowley agreed with her.

"You're to kill the younger one, got it? The gangly giant bloke with the funny hair. _Not_ the short one, got it?"

Oh, Ruby got it. She grinned to herself as she stalked the woods, her men's jacket unbuttoned and flapping. She wore her knives strapped to her white dress shirt, the blades twin grins in the chalky night light.

She'd kill the little brother, sure. She'd do it like she did so many others–a quick slash to the throat. Maybe she'd let him bleed out, maybe she'd drag his body to the water's edge and watch it sink under dirt-blackened waves. But Ruby knew she'd do it. It was her duty, her calling. Plus, it paid well.

"There's something off about him,"

Crowley had warned her. Sam Winchester, the one whose name was carved in destiny. Dean Winchester had nothing on him. Hell had plans for Sam.

But Crowley didn't want to follow them.

"You kill the boy, and I wipe all your slates clean," he promised her. Ruby had laughed, shrugged it off, a glint in her eye. She was never going to be accepted back. "Just kill Sam Winchester."

But this time it's different.

...

Castiel didn't see the point in argument. He was mostly right, anyway.

"You are not as proficient in the art of dealing with other individuals in a civilized manner," he tried to explain on the carriage ride back. "Sam has much more ideal 'people skills' than you, Dean."

Dean snorted.

"Okay, Chatty Cathy, just calm down a little."

Although Cas had read a great number of works, studied a great number of religions, languages, histories, etc., he still had no idea what Dean meant sometimes.

"My name is not Cathy, Dean, it's Castiel Emmanuel Winche–"

"Okay, you two, just shut yer traps til we get back."

They were silent once again.

Cas preferred this to the usual banter, but somehow it seemed tense. Thick, almost, as if he was slowly suffocating under some unknown pressure. Sam was brooding with his back turned to Cas. What was happening? Mr. Crowley had clearly poked a nerve with the middle Winchester. This wasn't good, not at all.

"Is something bothering you, Sam?" Cas asked. The carriage hit a rock, and the horses murmured nervously in the warm night air.

Sam didn't reply, only gave a weak smile, his eyes immobile in their sockets.

Cas could see through everything. It was almost as if Sam's soul was pulsing off a red warning light, an angry beacon.

But even if Castiel Emmanuel Winchester could see some things others couldn't, he was only human.

And his "people skills" were really "rusty".

...

_Dear Stupid Journal Sam Wanted Me To Write,_

_I went to a party today. It honestly sucked. I mean, Jo Harvelle wasn't even there, and she knows how to throw a party, believe me. No, it was just some weird old strangers and some really bad symphony. But that Crowley was interesting.  
_

_I wonder if selling the company would be a good idea. When Dad died, everything fell apart. Sometimes it seems like nothing ever went back to normal, really. Bobby's great, but he's no Dad, and even though Missouri and Jody and Ellen stop by, nobody will ever replace Mom, either.  
_

_It even feels like I don't even have a younger brother any more. Sammy's changed, last few years. I don't know how, he just...did. And there's no way in hell Cas the friggin' clueless dictionary is ever going to replace my Sammy.  
_

_No way.  
_

_I should have taken the deal.  
_

_Dean W.  
_

_(I don't care what the date is. I'm only writing this 'cause Sam thinks I need some "cultural significance". What a bitch.)  
_


End file.
